


Resign

by disagio



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: (I'm sorry Mrs. Borgov), Age Difference, Borgov is not a good man, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, I wrote this instead of studying, I'm Going to Hell, Mutual Masturbation, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-Canon, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29535657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disagio/pseuds/disagio
Summary: Vasily Borgov always had the reputation of being an inflexible man. Stoic, strict, unrelenting.Yet, in chess as in life, sometimes he had to simply resign. And when he did, he always resigned against Elizabeth Harmon.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Comments: 27
Kudos: 64





	Resign

**Author's Note:**

> And I'm back! Did you miss me?  
> I did miss writing for this fandom and I'm glad my absence is over.   
>   
> Yet again, this story was written for the [14th Italian P0rn Fest](https://www.landedifandom.net/pf14-main/). You can read it in the original language [here](https://www.landedifandom.net/pf14-main/#comment-5758).  
> (I still have another prompt for this event, then I'm back to Victorian handholding. Scandalous, I know.)  
>   
> There are so many things I want to tell you about this story — how it literally haunted me until I started scribbling it,or how much writing it helped me stay sane during a very stressful time — but I'll let you enjoy it on your own. I hope you'll love it as much as I do.  
>   
> A huge thank you to [Kinuwan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kinuwan/pseuds/Kinuwan), who let me use one of her ideas for my fic. If you haven't read [Her Past, Their Future](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28830246) you're missing out on a great work. Here's your PSA to go read it now!  
> Also, my eternal gratitude to [castilloenemytolover](https://castilloenemytolover.tumblr.com/), who so graciously helped me with Russian and avoid certain pitfalls whenever I barged into her chat. Really, I don't know where I would be without her.  
> (And a small thank you — only small, because otherwise he would protest too much — to dear [goulds](https://goulds.tumblr.com/), whose support was invaluable in this last week. He goes by [goeasyvicar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goeasyvicar/pseuds/goeasyvicar) here, and I think you know him well; if you don't, shame on you, go read his stories immediately, you won't regret it)  
>   
> Apologies to Armenian Grandmaster and ninth World Champion Tigran Petrosian, whose fictional counterpart had to assist what you're about to read. I hope he's not turning too much in his grave.

“We should stop meeting like this.”

Her voice was a husky murmur, her hair completely disheveled, and the black sheath dress she wore was rolled up to her hips, but to Vasily Borisovich Borgov she still was the most beautiful and sensual creature on this earth.

He lifted his head from the slope of her neck, where he was having fun teasing her with open-mouthed kisses and small bites, and smirked, grinding his erection between her parted legs. There was no need for an answer, they both knew that it was part of their ritual: Liza complained, he made her come with his hands or mouth, and she allowed him to fuck her on whatever surface they were on, pliant and content from her previous orgasm. They have been going on like this for three years, from their first time a few months after the Moscow Invitational, and their affair still hadn’t grown stale.

How could he ever tire of his Liza’s moans?

She had decided to skip wearing stockings yet again, giving him free access to her pretty, white lace underwear: why would he ever deny her what she clearly desired? The sigh escaping her lips when he stroked her clit was music to his ears, but they were in a broom closet in San Martín Theatre and someone could found them if they were not careful enough. Reluctantly, he had to muffle it against his mouth, while he fondled her breasts with the other hand. Liza carded her slim fingers through his hair — trying to make a mess of it — and she pulled it decisively when his index, after sliding against her ribcage and the curve of her hip, pushed inside of her with no resistance. She was already drenched for him, his sweet Liza. Always wanting to have the upper hand in everything, she bit his lower lip. “Vasya, you either fuck me right now or I swear I’ll just leave. I don’t have much time, I have to play in…” small pause to check the time on the wristwatch she never took off. “Twenty minutes at most…”

Were they in a hotel room, Vasily would have loved nothing more than to test her resolve, but this was certainly not the time for such games. Liza was about to play the most important game of her career — yet — because if she defeated (or got a draw, she just needed half a point more) Tigran Petrosian, she would win the 1971 Candidates Tournament. And, as winner of such event, she would have the right to challenge him for the World title. Just the mere thought of playing her in the World Championship was intoxicating and, if his reign was to come to an end, he would rather have her as his successor. However, it was still early for such intriguing ideas: he had to focus on what really mattered right now.

It was Borgov’s turn to muffle a moan against her pliant mouth when he slowly bottomed out. No matter how many times they had done it during these past years, taking advantage of every international tournament they could both attend, being inside of her was the closest thing to a religious experience he had ever experienced in his life. Always ready for him, hot as the inferno in which he didn’t believe but where he would probably end up, what made sex with Liza so special was the fact that it was with her. His Liza, his equal, the other side of his coin. It was not only physical — two bodies becoming one, coaxing one another towards the climax — but it was the mental side of it that prevailed: the bed was just another board were they met, trying to get the upper hand before accepting the inevitable draw. He didn’t know it could be so complete, so perfect, until he pushed inside her warm body for the first time, in her hotel room in London. Liza had ruined him forever.

Liza who was panting so prettily in the same tempo of his thrusts, a hand pressed on her mouth to muffle the loudest gasps, and who was looking at him with those doe eyes of hers that could pierce his very soul. In the dim light of this isolated closet, her brown irises seemed much darker, almost pitch black: two magnificent abysses in which he could — and wanted — to lose himself, brightened only by the growing pleasure he was sure she could see in his eyes as well. Vasily couldn’t look away, their gaze much more intimate than what was going on between their legs, while trying to maintain the fast and relentless rhythm he knew she loved; he usually preferred it slow and tender, to take his time exploring her lithe body and find new ways to make her squirm and sigh. However, Beth was impetuous and impatient, she wanted it all and she wanted it now; Borgov had soon learned that this was the price to pay for loving such a young person. What a splendid, terrible sin.

“Lizochka, _lyubimaya_ ,” oh, he would never get over the way she shivered from head to toe, even inside her tight pussy, when he used pet names. Oh, his Liza, so desperately hungry for love. “Can you touch yourself for me? Touch yourself and come for me.”

And she did, her eyes shining as they always did when she was about to orgasm, her perfectly manicured fingers brushing from time to time his cock sinking into her wet heat. Maybe it was that touch, maybe it was the simple realization that he was fucking Elizabeth Harmon — just a few minutes prior she had to play against the same man he took the World title from — against the door of a broom closet, maybe it was because she had already reached the climax, her head thrown back and lips slightly parted, and her internal walls were throbbing against his cock. Most likely, it was the combination of these three factors that made him come with a hoarse shout, against the slope of her neck.

Soon — too soon for his liking — he had to put her down since his legs were about to give way after the orgasm, but not before kissing her one last time, just to enjoy the honeyed taste of her mouth. Liza was the first to get back on her feet, while he was still panting as if he had just run a marathon, and went for the door after readjusting her clothes and her hair. “Go beat him,” Vasily whispered, looking at her. She stopped in her track, smiling widely. “I will,” she laughed, magnificent and confident, and left him alone in the closet. The echo of her laugh stayed with him for the whole afternoon.

Borgov was thinking about that — sweet and melodious, clear as wind chimes — when he entered his apartment in Leningrad, an evening of late May 1970. The temperature was mild, sign of a warmer than usual summer, and he had defeated everyone at the Budapest Invitational. Even Elizabeth Harmon, who was the projected winner of the event. Liza wasn’t pleased by her defeat: she was still sulking when he went to her room, but soon enough she was mollified by his kisses and caresses, the analysis of their last game completely forgotten while she dragged him to bed.

The house was quiet and dark. It had been so long since the last time Sasha welcomed him home with a hug, as he now preferred to ignore him, spending his days locked in his room and addressing his father only when strictly necessary. Vasily couldn’t fault him for it: this cold treatment was the result of years and years of detachment, a barrier he had erected between them since he was a child. A part of him wanted to give his son — with whom he shared the shape of the nose and of the eyes — the fatherly love he desperately craved, but never received: Alexander had been the price to pay to participate in the prestigious international tournaments, an extra guarantee he would not seek refuge into the first foreign embassy the moment he stepped out of Russia. He was 27 and in Spain when his wife gave birth, alone in Leningrad; it was Luchenko who broke him the news, and he welcomed it with the same tepid enthusiasm with which he had accepted a draw in the game he just concluded, after a dominating middlegame. When he had held him in his arms for the very first time, so small and delicate, he didn’t feel that rapture for his newborn son that other parents loved to describe him so much. He had dearly hoped it would spark, one year or the next, but Sasha grew up fast and the only thing Vasily saw in him was the debt he had incurred with the State to fuel his ambition.

So he welcomed his indifference, it soothed his guilt.

Borgov put down his small suitcase in the entryway and made a beeline for the kitchen, where he knew he would find his wife, preparing dinner while listening to her favorite radio program. Instead, Lyudmila was waiting for him sitting at the table, her porcelain face carefully blank.

“Where’s Sasha?” He asked, noticing only two plates set on.

“At a friend’s house: he stays the night with some friends. He’ll come back tomorrow after school,” she explained quickly. “Come and eat, it’s getting cold.” However, Vasily stayed exactly where he was, suspicious of her cold demeanor: he had known Lyudmila for 18 years, since he had reciprocated her shy smile at a common friend’s dinner party, and he could recognize when something was bothering her. And he knew that behind that calm façade there was a volcano ready to erupt.

He might as well know why.

“I heard you won,” he didn’t have to wait long before she started talking. “You defeated the American too.”

There, now it was the time to sit down. She went on, stiff as an ice statue: “I know what you’ve been up to with that girl. You don’t have to be a Grandmaster to understand that how you two look at each other is not normal for supposed rivals!” Ah, sarcasm. The sign that soon Lyudmila’s eyes would well up with tears of frustration. She cried often when something was bothering her — in a heated argument or simply when something hurt her — and she had always hated this extreme sensitivity, always fearful that it could be misinterpreted as an attempt to make her opponent take pity on her. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do about it, it was just the way she reacted, and she had to power through it as if nothing was amiss. Over the years, her tears had become an integral part of their reconciliation ritual, after a tiff: they would fight, sometimes screaming at one another, but once they both calmed down, he would wipe her wet cheeks and she would kiss him, signaling the end of their quarrel.

He idly wondered if she would allow him to do the same now, but recoiled at the thought: he had lost that privilege the moment he cheated on her; he didn’t want to make a mockery out of her.

Lyudmila paused for a few seconds, swallowing the tears that were already gathering in the corner of her eyes. “When I married you I knew that I would always come second in your life, after chess. I knew that and I had accepted it because I loved you, because chess is a part of you, just like your arms or your legs. I don’t understand it, but I respect it, as I have always respected you,” another pause, but when she resumed her voice was glacial, conveying her wounded pride. “I know you don’t love me anymore.”

Vasily knew that it was the perfect moment to interject and interrupt her monologue, to rebuke her accusations, but the truth was that she was right. He had loved his wife, he still did in a way: he felt for her that deep affection that could only blossom between two people who shared a whole life together. He had always felt at ease with her — and maybe that was why he had asked her to marry him, right after graduating from college — and her discreet and constant love had been a safe harbor in which he had found refuge during hardships.

However, what he felt for Liza was on a whole other level. His passion for her was comparable to a stormy sea, which had violently swept him away. He had tried to resist his impulses — once he had understood that his fascination went beyond the sincere admiration for her play and the curiosity for what troubled her so much — but there was nothing he could do: the moment he gave in to his desire, hugging her amid thunderous applause, he realized he was doomed. The way she fit perfectly against his body, her head nestling on his shoulder as if it had always belonged there, and the sweet scent of her hair dazed him. But it was the glint in her dark eyes, as bright as the stars in her moment of glory, that really sealed his fate: he could see in her gaze the same ambition and passion that had characterized his rise to fame, those same qualities that many had labelled as fanaticism, even arrogance. Lyudmila had accepted it, sure, but she had never _comprehended_ it; instead, Elizabeth did, and that was the key to understand him fully. No one else could ever know him better than her, and vice versa.

Having an American as his soul mate didn’t surprise him at all, it was the price to pay for his crime against nature: he was offered the woman of his dream, but she was on the other side of the Iron Curtain, thus making it impossible for them to imagine something more than quick rendezvous in a hotel. 

“But even if you don’t love me anymore I demand the respect I’m owed,” Lyudmila continued after realizing — maybe a part of her had hoped — that he would not deny her allegations. “Your affair has made me the laughing stock of all of Russia.”

“I’m sorry,” it was the only thing Borgov could do: apologize for causing a person he deeply cared for such pain, and for unintentionally humiliating her. “But I can’t give her up.”

She laughed, but since she had just cried, it came out as a wet snort. “I know, Vasya. I wouldn’t have asked it because I know you.”

Her right hand, still sporting the wedding ring, was stretched towards him; in a gesture that came natural to him, after 20 years together, he took it between his. Lyudmila didn’t push him away, she just stared at them and gave out a soft sigh. She probably found his touch still soothing, their clasped hands a reminder of all the hardships they had faced together.

“Divorce is not an option, I imagine,” she murmured, the ticking of the kitchen’s clock louder than her own voice. Vasily just shook his head, his thumb caressing her cold knuckles. If they were to announce their separation, the KGB would make their life a living hell: they would ban him from competing in international tournaments, afraid that he would defect now that the guarantees tying him to Russia were coming loose; they would also follow Lyudmila and Sasha wherever they went, and who knew what would happen next. Maybe a relocation, in some godforsaken place beyond the Urals. They had to bide their time.

Lyudmila slipped her hand out of his grasp and stood up. “I want to be alone now,” she announced, visibly drained, and only when she was about to exit Vasily managed to speak: “If I could choose who to love, I would have chosen you, Lyuda.”

Her bitter laugh sent shivers down his spine. “That’s not true. You would always choose her because that’s what you love: impossible things,” she declared, leaving him alone with the cold dinner.

The second course, a filet of the much-praised Argentinean meat, was getting colder and colder, but Borgov didn’t care in the slightest: he was too engrossed in the lively conversation to pay attention to what he had on his plate. Seated between Petrosian on his left and Liza on his right, he enjoyed her brilliant analysis of the whole match, joining from time to time to suggest a variant she didn’t mention. 

It was a privilege to listen to her while she talked about chess, her eyes shining and her cheeks slightly blushed; she was radiant, self-assurance enveloping her like an aura, and he couldn’t help but admire her, enraptured, desperately trying not to give away what he felt for her. He was often afraid that he was too obvious, that everybody could see how deep his admiration for her ran, but Liza always reassured him: to those who didn’t know him well enough, he appeared unperturbed, almost bored.

It felt natural, in that moment, to rest a hand on her thigh. After all, no one could notice it. His body and the long tablecloth, covering their laps, obstructed Petrosian’s visual and the Armenian Grandmaster had eyes only for the filet, while he listened absent-mindedly to their conversation. The other three people, seated on the other side of the table, preferred to speak among themselves, unable to follow their analysis without a chessboard. If they were, they would have caught her small start and how she stopped breathing for just a second.

She had changed her clothes before dinner, switching the black sheath dress for a more comfortable one, light and pale green; Vasily wondered if she had changed her underwear as well. It was a legitimate question as he had noticed, during the last round, that she had gone to the toilet more often than usual. So much so that one of Petrosian’s second had speculated that she had someone suggesting her what to move, hidden in the women’s bathroom. Borgov had glared at him for the sheer absurdity of what he had just suggested: Liza, who had more talent in her little finger than her critic in his whole body, cheating? It was insulting. When they asked him what he thought of the frequent toilet breaks of the American he simply shrugged. For sure he couldn’t tell them what he suspected, that they were caused by the slow leak of semen from their earlier quickie. A reasonable suspicion, considering how she glared at him every time she returned to the board.

Only one way to find out.

Slowly, to avoid attracting any kind of attention with a swift movement, he pulled her skirt up to expose her soft legs to his touch. Yet again, Liza had skipped stockings and he could feel goose bumps under his fingers.

“Miss Harmon, what were you saying about the first game?” Tigran — who probably wasn’t listening so absent-mindedly as he previously thought — had noticed her unnatural pause and had now directed his attention to her. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her straighten up and gulp down some water, while spreading her thighs wide open to grant him better access, to provoke him further. Vasily Borisovich Borgov had never backed down from a challenge, especially if served on such a magnificent silver platter as this one.

“Bishop f5 was the blunder that cost you the game,” she resumed confidently, leaning out to look Petrosian in the eyes. “You should have played rook takes g2.”

Her expression remained the same, relaxed and amiable, when he touched her underwear: cotton, smooth and soft. She really did have to change it. Just the thought made him smirk widely, and he had to hide his amusement behind a glass of red wine.

“There’s bishop d3” Tigran replied, but Borgov almost didn’t hear him: he was thinking about how much further they could push their luck. He could feel a damper spot in her panties, while slowly dragging his index up and down the thin fabric, and the fact she didn’t stop him in any way — by crossing her legs, glancing at him, there were so many signals she could give him without attracting unwanted attentions — meant she didn’t want him to.

The passion he felt for this woman had changed him so much he almost didn’t recognize himself, from time to time. If someone had told him, ten years ago, that he would masturbate his lover at a dinner party, right under four people’s nose, he would have accompanied this person to a doctor because he must had suffered a severe concussion to imagine something like that; yet there he was, weighing the pros and cons of fingering Elizabeth Harmon at dinner. And he was ecstatic about it: he remembered vividly how _boring_ his life had become after achieving his only goal — that one thing he had sacrificed every other aspect of his existence for — the absence of any incitement slowly morphing into a general apathy. Until _she_ showed up on the international stage, reawakening his interest with the same aggressive and creative play he was praised for when he was younger. Or, he was simply going through his mid-life crisis, desperately searching for new ways to relive his long-lost youth. Honestly, he didn’t care which of these option was the most accurate, what truly mattered was that Liza, in every setting, made him feel _alive_.

“Sure, but then black has knight d4 and white’s position is compromised,” only Vasily, who knew her so well, could see that there’s something wrong with her: she was speaking faster than usual, her American accent — that she always tried to minimize when talking in Russian — was more pronounced, and it was painfully obvious that she was trying to finish the analysis of this line as quickly as possible. Which, in all honesty, was comprehensible since his fingers had slipped under her panties and had found her clit, massaging it while she explained. “Bishop e4, rook g4, pawn takes e6, rook takes e4 check,” here Liza had to take a small pause because Borgov has upped his rhythm. “King f1 and knight takes e6. White is forced to exchange the queen for two rooks and black will have no problem converting this position into a win: his pieces are much more active and white has four isolated pawns.”

Tigran lowered his gaze and Vasily felt his blood freeze in his veins: now that he was not looking at her in the eyes, he could potentially notice that Borgov’s right arm disappeared under the tablecloth right next to Elizabeth’s leg, whose face was starting to get quite flushed and her breathing was accelerated. Luckily, Petrosian was just staring at empty space while he pondered on the variant. “Brilliant,” it was his only comment, returning to his filet, and Borgov could breathe again.

“What about queen e3? Wouldn’t that be better for white instead of bishop d3?” he couldn’t resist the temptation to tease her, to test her limits, while he moved his fingers faster and faster. She kept quiet for a few seconds, chewing on her lower lip, while she decided whether to tell him to fuck off (which he totally deserved) or keep the charade going. “I believe knight d4 still is the best move,” she chose the second option, her shining eyes promising a merciless revenge.

“Let poor Miss Harmon eat! She must be exhausted,” one of the organizers — mistaking her blush for the embarrassment of not being able to give a thorough answer — rushed to her defense. “Instead, what about you, Mr. Borgov? Have you enjoyed your stay here in Buenos Aires?”

Even with everyone’s eyes on him, Vasily didn’t give her a moment of respite: he kept stroking her poor clit to try and push her over the edge. While he gave the usual answers — _very much so, I particularly enjoyed the tour in Plaza de Mayo and Casa Rosada, and the opera at the Teatro Colón was marvelous_ — he swirled his finger the best he could in this position. He didn’t need to look at her, he could feel her trembling so sweetly against his hand: he just needed to keep up the relentless pace he knew she loved and soon she would come, right in front…

Vasily Borisovich Borgov had to resort to all of his willpower not to look down when he noticed that his belt had come loose. Soon after, the button of his trousers was unfastened, and the zip pulled down: there was only one possible explanation, a suspicion that was confirmed when he felt her slender fingers slipping inside his boxers with no hesitation. He had to concentrate not to lose the thread of the conversation, while Liza grabbed his half hard dick, and he could see her smirking out of the corner of his eye.

“Next year you’ll play Miss Harmon in Reykjavík for the World title, what do you think about it?” The man inquired, unknowingly asking him the worst possible thing in that moment: he could not think of her, not now that she was jerking him off under the table. This whole situation, so debauched, and the unsteady movement of her left hand were making him lose his mind. It was one of— if not _the_ — most arousing thing he had ever experienced in his life. “It will be aro— exciting,” as feared, Borgov almost slipped, repeating what he was thinking about, and Liza had to conceal her soft chuckle behind a cough. He ignored her and kept going, frowning as he tried to keep his tone of voice relaxed and even. “I can’t wait to play her. And I want to win.”

Not just over the board, but here as well: considering how her lower body was shaking, Vasily knew she was tantalizingly close and she would come on his fingers with one last push. Her lips were parted, her cheeks the same shade of red as her hair, framing her delicate face like fiery waves, and her eyes were glinting; it was painfully obvious, even to an untrained eye, that something was wrong with her. Borgov had to act fast to deflect attention from this side of the table. “Is that FIDE’s president?” He blurted out, pointing at the opposite side of the room from them with his free hand. As predicted, they all turned to look for Max Euwe among the other customers of the restaurant, allowing him to lean in and whisper in her ear: “Come for me, _moya lyubov_.” That was exactly what she needed, one of the endearments she loved so much, and she came right away, almost as if she had waited for that distraction.

When they turned back, Liza was yet again presentable: sure, she was a tad too relaxed and very flushed, but at least she was back in full control of herself. “Are you sure you’ve seen the president, Mr. Borgov?” They asked, confused by his previous comment.

“I thought I did, my apologies,” he replied and he brought the fingers of his right hand — the ones that had given pleasure to Elizabeth just a few seconds ago — up to his mouth, sucking them nonchalantly. She could see her squirm at that gesture; her fist, still closed on his erection, started to move again, more decisively than before.

“Miss Harmon, what do you expect from the World Championship?” Hard to guess which of the three organizers had asked her that. Truly, it was hard even to _think_ now that she had picked up the pace. Liza took her sweet time before answering, poking with a silver spoon the dulce de leche that the waiters had brought them after the second course. “I’m very excited! Becoming the World Champion has been my dream since I’ve won my first Kentucky Championship,” her voice was calm, and all eyes were on her. “And I’m even more excited at the idea of playing against Mr. Borgov. I’ve studied all of his games, going as far as to look for old Soviet magazines with the help of my Russian teacher, and I’ve always admired him. No other player has driven me so much to improve, just with how perfectly he plays, with how much he’s dedicated to chess.”

He was not sure what was driving him more insane, if this hand job in public — they could be exposed any second, the moment that someone noticed the weird tremble of Liza’s left arm they would be doomed — or the compliments he was receiving. Probably those, so rare to hear from her, accompanied by a relaxed smile and glances full of sincere admiration. “This World Championship will be the height of my career. And I cannot imagine a worthier opponent,” she purred, her thumb caressing the sensitive skin right below the tip, and Borgov almost choked on his tongue: he was about to come, coaxed by her sweet words for him, and he _could not_. It would be a disaster, how could he possibly justify whitish stains on his dark suit? His eyesight was getting blurry on the edges, a sign of his upcoming release, when — with all the subtlety left in him — he grabbed her wrist to stop her. “Miss Harmon is too kind,” he whispered, shaking his head, and lifted her hand to his mouth. He could smell his scent on her fingers and his cock throbbed at that.

Liza would be his ruin.

Vasily still had a raging hard-on when it was time to leave the restaurant and go back to their respective hotel. The bulge in his trousers was so pronounced that he was forced to use his jacket to shield it during the torturous walk back. The warm Argentinean spring gave him the perfect excuse to do so, but Liza’s smirk — always elated to see the effect she had on him, that little minx — made him want to kiss her right there, just to surprise her. However, that would probably cause a diplomatic incident, so he had to contain himself, his fists clenched.

“Goodnight, Grandmaster Borgov,” she said to him, once they stood outside her hotel. The fact that she had called him _Grandmaster_ was one of their signal: she would come to him, tonight; if she had addressed him simply as _Mr. Borgov_ , it was his turn to go to her. He bid her goodnight and Liza smiled one last time before disappearing behind the heavy set of doors, unperturbed by all the gazes fixed on her.

However, Petrosian was not looking at the young American. He was looking at him. When Borgov turned to face him, he didn’t see reproach in his eyes, just _worry_.

“I hope you do know what you’re doing, Vasily Borisovich,” he told him plainly before retiring.

Luchenko squeezed his shoulder after saying that sentence, his eyes giving away the apprehension he felt.

“I thought we were on the same page about queen g5,” Borgov avoided his gaze, staring pointedly at the position on the board. This time it was Elizabeth Harmon who had asked for an adjournment, after four hours of hard fought battle, and Vasily was happy to retreat to the analysis room, where her dark irises couldn’t reach him anymore.

“Vaska,” Luchenko said quietly, with the same tone of voice he used when Borgov was a child. The gentle, almost fatherly tone that always brought him back to his childhood, when Lev had taken him under his wing, as soon as the Federation had noticed his precocious talent. Vasily remembered fondly all the afternoons he spent in his cramped apartment, filled with so many chess books he couldn’t even count them all, playing games, studying theory and drinking tea, which was always too sweet even for a 8-year-old's taste. It was the tone Luchenko used when he wasn’t satisfied with his answer and wanted a more precise analysis, and he kept pushing until Vasily gave it to him.

“We spent the whole night on queen g5, have you changed your mind?” However, Borgov kept avoiding the query, because this time he couldn’t give him what he wanted. He couldn’t give him the answer to that unspoken question that loomed above their heads — _what do you want to do with Elizabeth Harmon?_ — because he simply didn’t have it. 

He had thought about her every day since the Moscow Invitational, ever since that magical moment he had seen his own reflection in those big brown eyes of hers. He had spent many restless nights remembering her soft and warm body pressed against his in that quick hug, and how beautifully she had smiled. Her name was the first thing he had looked for after receiving the invitation for the London tournament; his impatience to see her, even from afar, consumed him so much that he felt that three months lasted for ages. Although he had a lot of time to think about it, Vasily never stopped to ponder more deeply about what was going on with him. Because he didn’t even want to formulate that thought, to admit that maybe, just _maybe_ , what he felt for Elizabeth Harmon went over and beyond admiration and esteem for a powerful opponent. After all, he never jerked off thinking about Laev, while he had lost count of how many times he had imagined her fingers stroking his cock instead of his, or all the times he had thought of her crimson lips stretched around his tip, or how much he had dreamed about the sounds she would make if he just fucked her hard and fast.

He knew perfectly well what he felt, what his embarrassing obsession for a woman half his age meant, but he couldn’t _admit it_. Admitting it would make it real and it would destroy all the certainties in his life.

“Vaska…” Luchenko tried again, but this time he sounded tired, almost disconsolate. Because Lev knew he would not listen to his doubts. Despite his resolution to stay away from her — for the respect he owed to his wife and child — Vasily would fail miserably: his desire to have something more with the only person in the world who could understand him completely would be stronger than anything else.

“I’m going for a walk to clear my head, don’t wait for me,” Borgov put his jacket back on, still avoiding his old teacher’s eyes.

“Queen g5 is the best move, you will be able to prepare an attack without any counterplay,” Lev gave up, at last, but Borgov had already left, making a beeline for the stairs. 

His room was on the second floor, and he knew that Lyudmila was sound asleep by now, warming the bed for him; however, without even realizing it, he was standing in front of room 408. Elizabeth Harmon opened the door in fifteen seconds, right when Vasily was about to leave, clutching at her white satin robe. She didn’t seem surprised by his presence: almost like she had been waiting for him, she let him in without saying a word, her eyes never leaving his. As soon as he entered the room, Elizabeth let go of her robe, which pooled at her feet like a soft wave. His hands moved by their own accord, touching and exploring that body he had often dreamed of, but his eyes stayed on hers, hypnotized by the way the streetlights shimmered in her irises.

And when she kissed him, looping her arms around his neck, Vasily Borisovich Borgov pulled her flush against him, enjoying the sweet taste of her mouth, dazed by her intoxicating perfume, and wishing to never let her go.

There was nothing to be done: camera flashes dazed him, even if he should be used to it by now. After all, he had been the favorite subject of the reporters covering the most prestigious international tournaments for the last ten years; yet, they still bothered him and made him want to rub his eyes with the heel of his hands. But he couldn’t do such a thing in front of an audience, he couldn’t show any weakness, any emotion really, because that would ‘reflect poorly on the Union he represents’. It surely didn’t help that there were many more than usual, a wall of blinking lights, but the only thing that Borgov could do was to grit his teeth and endure just a few minutes more, waiting for that blessed moment when they would put away their cameras and start with their questions.

He wasn’t surprised by the media hype surrounding the event: it was, after all, the 1972 World Chess Championship, the so-called _match of the century_. Vasily Borisovich Borgov, the stoic Soviet champion, would have to defend his title from Elizabeth Harmon, the 5-times US champion who seemed to be his complete opposite. There weren’t only journalists in Reykjavík, ready to cover yet another ramification of the Cold War, but enthusiasts from all over the world as well, intrigued by this unparalleled match. Tickets for the Laugardalshöll arena — where the organizers had already set the elevated platform and the chessboard for the opening game — had been sold out for months, ever since Liza had triumphed over Tigran Petrosian in Buenos Aires.

The first questions were for her, about how she felt to be so close to winning the coveted title, and Borgov couldn’t tear his gaze away: Liza was very tense — he had spent the previous night just holding her in his arms, trying to make her relax with tender caresses and some endearments whispered in her ear — but he could see in her eyes her iron will. That same determination that he could recognize in his old pictures, where he was in her stead next to the World Champion.

If he was truly to lose his title — that he would fight with all his strength to keep, because that was how it was supposed to be, both of them had to earn it — he could not think of a worthier adversary.

“Mr. Borgov, a question, if you may,” finally someone who remembered he was there as well! Vasily didn’t take it badly, honestly, he knew that the young challenger was much more charming than the dull Russian Grandmaster. Of course they preferred to start with her. “What do you prefer: chess or sex?”

At first, he simply thought he had misunderstood the question. Lyudmila stopped accompanying him at tournaments years ago: ever since he had started his relationship with Liza, his English had drastically improved. All the conversations they had, lying naked in bed after they had made love, did help him a lot on that front. Borgov didn’t want to humiliate Lyudmila further by forcing her to work for him while he met his lover. Sure, he still had some difficulties from time to time to understand what he was told, but overall he managed pretty well on his own. 

Nevertheless, he must have misunderstood: no one in their right mind would dare to ask something so frivolous, so intimate, the eve before the most important match of his life. However, the deadly silence that followed the question made it apparent that it had really happened, he didn’t misinterpreted. Vasily could even hear the scratching of a reporter’s pen on a block notes, scribbling away Liza’s last comment. 

He was tempted not to respond, or reprimand the journalist who posed such a tasteless question, but his gaze turned to Liza, seated so close next to him, who seemed more surprised than he was. He couldn’t help but think of all the times they focused on her private life, talking about her sex instead of how she played the Sicilian defense; he still remembered how she silenced those who thought she was too glamorous, too _feminine_ , to be a serious chess player with her dry humor and sharp tongue. If she had to go through all of this for years, he could survive perfectly fine just one question.

He reached for her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers under the table. “Well,” he tried, almost bashful, looking at her for a fleeting second before turning to their audience. “It very much depends on the position.”

Nobody expected Vasily Borisovich Borgov to be _capable_ of cracking a joke, and probably that was the reason why the auditorium erupted with laughter, much more than what a quip like that would normally provoke. Among them all, Elizabeth Harmon’s stood out — so sweet and carefree —even if she tried to muffle it with her hand. Maybe it was because she was the only person in this room he really paid attention to. And it was in that moment, while he observed her trying to pull herself together and look like a serious and professional chess player, her right hand holding tightly his, that Borgov knew what he had to do.

He leant in, while the reporters wrote down his response, and covered his microphone so that they wouldn’t hear what he whispered into Liza’s ear: “We should stop meeting like this.”

He was tired of hotel suites and quickies in dark broom closets or deserted analysis rooms, always terrified of being found out by someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was tired of always having to be careful not to let too much, or too little, transpire. He was tired of pretending that his marriage was the portrait of perfect domestic bliss, when his son couldn’t bear to talk to him and his wife and him had found someone else they’d rather spend the rest of their days with.

He wanted to be with Elizabeth, simple and selfish as that.

And when her eyes lit up, realizing what he really meant with that statement, Vasily had to refrain himself from kissing her right there, in front of everyone. It was too soon for that. Instead, he gave her a small lopsided smile, as if he had just made a joke for her ears only, and resumed answering the reporters’ questions, whose topic luckily was the World Championship. Liza gripped his hand tighter, while he explained how he had prepared in the months leading up to the match, and that touch alone made him feel like the king of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> [The actual prompts: Borgov POV; quickie before the next game; mutual masturbation during dinner.]  
>   
> The moves Beth blurts out are from Garry Kasparov's analysis of Game 1of the actual final of the 1971 Candidates Tournament, Fischer vs Tigran Petrosian. [Here](https://imgur.com/a/xMh2xt4) you can find that precise line she explains, an extract from Kasparov's book _My Great Predecessors: Volume 4_ , if you want to see the position for yourself.  
>   
> You can find me at empressofdisagio.tumblr.com, where I shitpost about everything. Now it's a lot of The Queen's Gambit and Marcin Dorociński, to be honest.


End file.
